


God Ships It

by vol_ctrl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, God Ships It, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Wrong Omens, based on a tweet, it's a date, reliable narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: Things have more or less settled for Aziraphale and Crowley after Armageddon't, but there isoneentity who has been waiting for the final loose ends to be tied up.She will get Her slow burn resolution, by Jove.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 146





	God Ships It

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever ago based on a Wrong Omens quote (which I can no longer find...).
> 
> Basically the joke is a crossover of the Stranger Than Fiction narrator idea, but it's God and only Crowley can hear Her narrating his life.
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers IngThing and OAbsalom!!

_A particular demon, who had at one time been the serpent who tempted Eve in the first days of Creation, woke up thinking about a particular angel who had guarded the very Garden where it had occurred._

Crowley groaned. “Could you at least let me get out of bed before you start with this?”

_The demon, whose name had been changed from ‘Crawly’ to ‘Crowley’ some millennia ago, did not need to sleep, but chose to. It was one of the many unnecessary human activities he enjoyed._

“And what’s it to you?” Crowley sat up in bed and rubbed at his eyes. He pulled the silk sheets around his waist.

_Sleeping, Crowley had come to discover, at times had the unfortunate side-effect of yet another human proclivity he had dabbled with over the years._

Crowley felt the heat draining from between his legs and redistributing to his cheeks. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

_Crowley was under the impression that My Divine Attention was a punishment. It was not. In fact, it was more of a fondness._

“That’s very nice and all,” Crowley growled and threw back the covers. “Funny way of showing it.”

_I work in mysterious ways, a fact that the demon Crowley should be well acquainted with. He was once a very clever young Creation, but--_

“For G- for Sa- for _Your_ sake, will you _please_ not do this today?” The lingering effect of his dreams that morning had faded entirely. Being stalked by God put a bit of a damper on one’s desire, like one’s mother bursting through a door Shut For A Reason at an inopportune moment of privacy.

_Today, the demon Crowley has a very important event to attend with the angel he has been attempting to “wile” for six thousand years. (It had only recently come to light, in the face of Armageddon itself, that the angel and demon had not in fact been wiling and thwarting each other, but instead partaking of clandestine meetings and other_ **_fraternizations._ ** _)_

Crowley winced. “It hurts my head when you do that. Use… emphasis and make asides.”

_Crowley grumbles through his morning routine, and cannot help but feel a flutter in his chest, an unusual sensation for a demon to have, but such is the uncanny nature of his nigh-mortal corporation whilst on the Earthly plane. For today, he has ahead of him several hours spent in the company of a certain former Principality’s company._

“You know that you don’t have to narrate every moment of my life, right?” Crowley stared up at the ceiling glumly.

_His mouth moves, but I do not listen._

Crowley shut his eyes and let his head drop with a bitter click of his tongue. “Of course.”

_He dresses more formally than usual, despite their first destination being a casual lunch._

Crowley gave a start. “Is it too formal? I mean, we’re going to a- a symposium after, I thought--”

_But no matter, for he strikes quite a handsome figure that is sure to impress the angel Aziraphale._

Crowley settled, shoulders relaxing. “He said it was a formal event. Surely he meant…”

_Crowley straightens his bow-tie. It was not his typical fashion choice, but having recently inhabited the body--not in the Biblical sense--of the angel Aziraphale, he had come to a quaint affection for the garment. With a dismissive snort, he strides with purpose from his flat and down to his prized Bentley, owned from new._

Crowley gave a little smirk to God’s acknowledgement of his pride and joy.

_Demons, as entities of sin, have a penchant for pride in material objects._

“Thanks for noticing,” Crowley tossed out in a sing-song tone, shooting a look at the sky before slinking into the driver’s seat.

_As he drove, ignoring all human laws and safety precautions, his hands began to sweat in anticipation. He grips the steering wheel tight and continues to second-guess his suit. But, ever one to favor blustering confidence--except in matters of the heart--he pulls up sharply on the curb outside a particular bookshop curated by one A.Z. Fell._

_The bell above the door rings as he enters. Aziraphale is in the back room, finishing a list of books he would like to procure through the symposium._

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered.

_Crowley knows to seek Aziraphale in one of the many warren-like back rooms if the angel is not immediately apparent in the bookshop. He knocks on the antique wood door frame through which the former Principality awaits._

“Oh. Crowley!”

_The angel’s face brightens as he recognizes the familiar rap of knuckles. His expression grows in delight at the sight of the demon in a suit, the very picture of tall, dark, and handsome._

“Oh, my dear, you look dashing!”

_Aziraphale is dressed much the way he is dressed every day, with his worn and tired waistcoat that Crowley has always thought suited him far better than anything a modern tailor could come up with. But his bow-tie is new, the tartan pattern ever so subtly different._

_Crowley clears his throat to diffuse the reaction his heart has to being called ‘dashing.’_

“You too,” Crowley murmured clumsily. “Is that a- a new tie?”

_Aziraphale looks surprised that Crowley noticed, and that melted butter smile creases his lips._

“It is, in fact. Didn’t think you cared for tartan enough to notice.”

“You know me.”

_Crowley gives an awkward salute and taps the toe of his boot over the other in what he hopes is befitting of ‘dashing.’_

“Perceptive.”

_Crowley had certainly studied the angel long enough to notice the little things about him. Like, when the angel was having a particularly good day, how his curls framed his face like a halo. Or how shoulders dipped in repose when he gave him that honey smile. The softness of those blue eyes upon him as an eternity of comfortable silence stretched between them over wine shared in the late hours of the night._

Crowley quickly snapped his heel back down on the ground and stiffened. 

_Crowley is silently cursing me for reminding him of the very obvious, which really doesn’t do him any good. He is embarrassed to realize that he does have these thoughts even without Someone reminding him._

“Something the matter, dear?”

_Aziraphale is confused, for only Crowley can hear the Voice of God in his head at the moment._

“No. Nothing. Just.” Crowley scratched at the back of his neck.

_Crowley finds it nearly impossible not to think of these things as Aziraphale looks at him with gentle curiosity. Crowley rakes a hand through his hair and only manages to recreate the cowlick he had spent some time affixing not an hour before._

“Not used to wearing a suit.”

_A definitively lame excuse, but no matter. Lunch awaits._

“It really,” Aziraphale tittered a moment, “ _suits_ you.”

_Crowley loves Aziraphale’s humor. Truly an angel._

“Come on, Angel.” Crowley managed to suppress a groan, but not the roll of his eyes behind dark glasses.

_Still, he smiles that little smile just for Aziraphale as they depart. Aziraphale carefully folds his list written in neat copperplate handwriting--that never goes out of style as far as he is concerned--and joins Crowley. The demon feels a sudden electricity shoot from his elbow to every other inch of his corporation as the angel tucks his fingers in the crook of his arm. Had he consciously offered it? Perhaps it is the fit of the suit._

“I’ll be so glad to have you along for this jaunt, Crowley dear. I sometimes lose my head at events such as these…”

“Ngk.”

_Crowley’s brain has briefly short-circuited and requires a reboot, as it were._

“I nearly had words with a Mr. Templeton over his storage techniques at the last symposium. I mean, _really,_ if you’re going to have something restored, it’s common sense to…”

_Crowley manages to make it to the Bentley and open the door for Aziraphale without falling to pieces, which he considers quite the feat given how wobbly every bit of him has gone, but cannot keep hold of the thread of conversation._

“No matter you’re at a symposium! That is all the more _reason_ to take _additional_ precautions in the care and storage of a text of antiquity…”

_Aziraphale’s tirade continues, even swells, as Crowley races through London to the location of their lunch date. The familiar thrum of the Bentley allows him the reprieve required to return to normal function._

“Oh, my. We’ve arrived. Did I really go on so long?” Aziraphale took a breath and turned an apologetic look to Crowley. “You see? I really do forget my head.”

_Crowley smiles, and ruminates yet again on the words he had said to Aziraphale at their_ **_romantic_ ** _lunch at the Ritz after averting Armageddon: just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing._

“Dunno how much help I’ll be. I’m a bastard all the time. You just pick and choose your moments wisely.”

“I’m not sure how _wise_ it is to be combative with potential sources of rare acquisitions, but…” Aziraphale sighed and fixed Crowley with another grateful look. “I do so appreciate your willingness to indulge me.”

_Crowley has never been able to resist indulging Aziraphale. In this case, he had taken comfort in the fact that Aziraphale was getting back into the swing of things. His normal routine returned after eleven years of anxious waiting, watching, plotting to avert the end of it all. The only difference being that they no longer had to meet so surreptitiously. Or so they thought._

Crowley tensed and suddenly shouted, “What does that mean?!”

_I have a bit of an air for the dramatic. I couldn’t resist._

Aziraphale jumped at Crowley’s outburst. “I-I only meant…” Color took to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Oh, my, I only meant to thank you,” Aziraphale laughed, “for your willingness to be my… accomplice tonight.”

_Aziraphale chooses his words carefully, and thinks perhaps he had spoken too broadly of Crowley’s ever acquiescent nature. Crowley is breathing rather hard--and the attractive color of Aziraphale’s cheeks and beguiling smile is doing him no favors._

“Yeah. Accomplice.” Crowley took a moment to breathe. “Wait--accomplice? Am I supposed to do something?”

_Aziraphale considers this with pursed lips. He returns to meet Crowley’s gaze, sunny as anything._

“No, dear. More of a date than anything.”

_Crowley levels approaching critical once more. His face goes slack. He swallows._

“Right.”

“Come along, then.”

_Aziraphale leads the way out of the Bentley and into their favorite sushi spot. Crowley sits beside Aziraphale’s usual spot at the chef’s bar. Of course, one of Aziraphale’s favorite chefs is miraculously working that day and knows just what will satisfy the angel. He has a touch for Aziraphale’s taste in sushi much the way Crowley has a touch for just what to do to make the angel smile._

_The demon’s scowl cannot remain firmly affixed with Aziraphale so enjoying his food. The chef makes several attempts to offer Crowley something, but only by the angel’s insistence will he actually try anything. He finds that it’s quite good, although he cannot fathom why anyone would go to all the trouble to eat raw fish cold._

“I feel as though I should get a bit more dressed up,” Aziraphale fretted as they departed the sushi restaurant.

_Crowley feels Aziraphale looking at him. Not just looking, but drinking him in from scaly boots to his nervously cowlicked hair. It sets the skin on the back of his neck alight, a prickling sensation he should have been immune to as a demon in the company of an angel. Unless said angel were hunting him. He does feel hunted, in a way._

“No need.”

_Crowley glances at Aziraphale--but it’s rarely ever just a glance. Once he peeks at Aziraphale, he’s helpless to take stock of the particular kind of smile he’s wearing, one of many shades he has memorized over millennia. The crease of his eyes adds another tint to the portrait, as does the position of his hands, the set of his shoulders._

_Currently, the portrait looks thus: Aziraphale is wearing the well-sated smile of a well-fed angel with a propensity for mortal indulgences, with a touch of--is it hunger? Surely he can’t still be hungry after dining on one of his favorite meals--something akin to the way he looks at a particularly delicious morsel before methodically enjoying the treat. His eyes are alight, as airy as his ponderous fingers. These are not the anxious-thinking hands of an angel conflicted or under duress to perform as is expected of a Principality, but the fluid, synapse-sign-language hands that emote just as eloquently as Aziraphale’s lips._

“I mean… if you like.”

_Crowley misses the changing fashions of days gone by. That is not to say he finds Aziraphale’s charming wardrobe droll. Only that he misses that little thrill of seeing the Principality taking a stab at whatever might be fashionable at the time. He hopes Aziraphale will take this opportunity to give a different fashion a spin, but the angel slides into the Bentley unchanged._

“I wish I’d known ahead of time that you were going to get so dressed up, dear. I would have gone to a tailor.”

_Crowley feels self-conscious, but more so, he feels the need to assuage the mild disappointment in Aziraphale’s tone._

“You look fine in whatever you’re comfortable in.”

_Aziraphale purses his lips._

“I- M- More than fine! You look put together. You always look put together, Angel,” Crowley blustered.

_The demon has never exactly shied away from complimenting the angel, but rarely has he done so out loud. His lack of practice is showing._

“The three piece suit--it’s your look. Why change it?”

“Hmm…”

_Crowley can feel Aziraphale staring at him and he tries very hard to focus on the road. For some reason, he is going less than ninety and it shows._

_When they arrive at the conference hall, Crowley pulls up well away from the valet. No way is he letting anyone else drive his precious automobile, even if it’s just to a car park and back._

“Want me to meet you inside?”

“I’ll wait for you here, dear.”

_The weight of the word ‘dear’ wraps around Crowley like an embrace. Try as he might to wrestle out of it, he’s helpless. He speeds off with a roar to try to outrun it. Alas, it has long since had him attached on a leash._

_Crowley rumples his suit with his poor posture as he makes the long walk from the car park, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched as he saunters vaguely upward toward the conference hall. It takes him a solid minute to spot the Former Principality Aziraphale, and would have taken him longer had the angel not waved to him._

_The angel looks anachronistically modern. Which is to say, in all the ways in which Aziraphale was normally behind the times, he now looks ahead of it--in a distinctly Aziraphale way. He has traded his camouflage of khaki and baby’s breath blue for a full tartan suit--the same tartan as his new tie had been, delicate, particularly tan with blue. The usual layers of his waistcoat and neat button-down have been simplified to a mere single layer of cashmere that brings out the clear summer sky blue of his eyes, the soft collar of which comes halfway up Aziraphale’s throat in place of his typical bowtie. Crowley would think this a disappointment, to be robbed of the sight of the apple of the angel’s throat, which normally bobbed softly against the collar of his shirt, were it not for the way in which the rest of the sweater suits Aziraphale’s frame._

“That’s…”

_Crowley can’t find the words. He has never seen Aziraphale looking so fashion-forward and he’s utterly hopeless to his definitive attraction to the angel._

“It’s not _too-_ too, is it?” Aziraphale worried.

_Without his familiar waistcoat to flatten and fondle, his fingers go for the gold chain at his lapel. Crowley recognizes it as Aziraphale’s ever-present pocket watch chain, though even this looks strikingly modern as it dips into his chest pocket._

“Not at all.”

_Crowley clears his throat and subtly tries to adjust his trousers, grateful that they are of a slightly looser variety than he typically wears. He cannot even find it in himself to be irritated by my commentary because he is so smitten with his angel._

_Without a second thought this time, Crowley offers his arm to the angel. The gesture bolsters Aziraphale’s confidence in his attire, and they walk arm in arm into the symposium._

_The conference has the smell of Aziraphale’s bookshop, but none of the charm. A few of the other proprietors and collectors look like amalgamations or caricatures of the angel--to the point that Crowley has a palm-sweaty feeling of being at some sort of nightmare Aziraphale convention. He is glad for Aziraphale’s costume change, and tells him so with a shudder that makes the angel laugh._

_Crowley’s eyes glaze over behind his sunglasses during the proceedings. There are a few speakers, all of whom would have absolutely put him to sleep on his feet were it not for Aziraphale’s derisive under-the-breath commentary. Unbeknownst to Crowley, Aziraphale is well aware of Crowley’s waning interest in anything to do with the subject matter, just as he is well aware his company is the sole reason the demon agreed to such an outing._

Crowley stiffened at this, glanced up, then over at the angel.

_Who is still clinging to his arm; has not left it in fact. Aziraphale apologizes as he drags the demon about the conference space, but Crowley could not care less about how many displays he must endure, or miles he must walk, or conversations he must stay awake during, for the angel’s well-manicured hand remains tucked in the crook of his arm._

_Crowley has failed to notice ever since that celebratory lunch at the Ritz after the End of the World that just didn’t quite cut it, Aziraphale has broken the silent contract of no contact. His hands have found more ways to reach out to the demon. It finally dawns on him as Aziraphale is partaking of refreshments one-handed._

“I’m not gonna run off, you know.”

“Hm? Oh, I forget myself! If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

_Crowley knows the angel’s face too well, and sees the fleeting look of the angel caught doing something perhaps he shouldn’t. An indulgence one too many. The demon, for once, is not stupid enough to let Aziraphale get away and catches his hand before it leaves his arm. He even smiles. Perhaps he’s not so daft after all._

“Just wanted you to know. I’m not going anywhere.”

_Atta boy. Though there had been no clouds upon the angel’s brow, the sun suddenly shines brightly through his visage as if after a dreary day. Crowley is glad for his sunglasses, lest he be blinded by that smile._

_The symposium culminates with a sort of reception. It has the trappings of a fancy cocktail party, but the atmosphere of a library._

“I’ve got to go schmooze for a bit, dear. I won’t subject you. There’s a particular first edition I simply _must_ rescue from that Mr. Elliot.”

_Aziraphale releases his arm and Crowley feels unmoored._

“I’ll be here.”

_Crowley watches morosely as Aziraphale disappears into the crowd. He manages to find the alcohol; something to soothe the ache of missing his other half._

“He’s not my _other half._ That would imply… well, you know what that would imply.”

_What does Crowley know of the balance of the universe? He has teetered on both sides of the scales; seen the apparent flaws of the utterly Good, and recognized the advantages of the supposed Evil. Who else could be his other half than an angel who came to those same conclusions?_

Crowley fidgeted. “Okay. Suppose he’s my other half.” Sipped at his wine. “So what?”

_The wine was underwhelming. It made Crowley wish he were instead at the bookshop drinking one of Aziraphale’s vintages._

“So what?” Crowley demanded again.

_Crowley always had a propensity to ask too many questions. It had gotten him in quite a spot of trouble, in the Beginning._

“Now, that’s just mean.”

_His first questions had been big, dangerous questions. Now, they were little, dangerous questions. Questions like, ‘What would it be like to kiss an angel?’ And, ‘What would an ethereal entity taste like?’ And, ‘What sorts of heavenly choruses would come from those lips in moments of intimate contact?’_

“And, ‘Why the fuck is God trying to tempt me’?”

_The Lord has tried working in mysterious ways, and has nothing to show for it except two angels, one of them Fallen, dancing around the obvious even after I set up the perfect meet-cute, orchestrated the longest slow burn of Creation, and even threatened the End of the World._

_Crowley is silent. Perhaps it has finally gotten through his thick head that I am not tempting him, but indeed, have been rooting for him this entire time._

_The temptation, the forbidden fruit, has always been my oeuvre--and has it not always Worked Out?_

_Aziraphale returns looking harried and carrying a glass of wine--white. Crowley voices his confusion in silence._

“Someone foisted this upon me. Told me I look like the type who enjoys a nice dry chardonnay. I mean, really. The presumption,” Aziraphale grumbled.

_The angel miracles his wine to a more appropriate burgundy. It is of significantly higher quality than the wine on offer at the event. The angel appears to have something on his mind._

_Crowley, well into his third glass of sub-par red, does not hesitate to take up the offer of omnipotent knowledge._

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“It’s all rather hum-drum. There’s lovely music and this grand hall, but no…”

“No what?”

“No dancing. Seems a dreadful pity, no dancing in a lovely place like this.”

_The only dancing going on is the slow pace of this conversation._

“... Would you like to dance, Angel? Thought that was against your code or… whatever.”

“Well, I-”

_Aziraphale appears surprised by the suggestion, but by no means unpleasantly._

“I did learn to dance once, lovely little jig. But… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now whether or not I’m _supposed_ to dance.”

_Crowley, full of liquid courage, knew that he would very much like to dance with Aziraphale._

“I’d very much like to dance with you, Aziraphale.”

_The angel glowed._

“Really? Here?”

“Here, there, at the bookshop, at my--”

_Careful, Crowley. Don’t mess this up._

“Yes. Here. Wherever you’d like.”

_Glasses of wine are consumed before either can lose their nerve and Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand._

“I didn’t know you knew how to dance, my dear.”

“Never asked.”

_It is not the first time the angel and demon have been so close, but it is perhaps the first time they have been so conscious of it. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hip, and the latter takes his shoulder, and in wine-softened motions, they take to the music. The world around them melts, drips away like paint on a fencepost over hundreds of years, time lost to the inevitability of the two of them, here, dancing._

_When they come to, when they can bear to acknowledge that anything else exists but that gaze into each other’s eyes, they realize that the whole room is full of dancing couples. Unlikely couples, even. Even Mr. Stevens is dancing with Mr. Potter, and Mrs. Rennet has found her way into the arms of Mr. Setton._

_The immense pleasure of dancing with Crowley has seeped out of Aziraphale’s holy essence and inspired the whole symposium to dance and, in some cases, fall in love._

“Oh my.”

_Aziraphale pauses and his fingers falter against Crowley’s as his cheeks turn pink. Has Crowley ever noticed how precious that shy blush is?_

“It seems I may have gotten a bit swept up with it all.”

_Crowley’s fingers tighten on Aziraphale’s, not ready to let go._

“So let’s get swept up.”

_Aziraphale looks at Crowley as if seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. A veil is lifted between them, that gauzy invisible barrier between them that prevented this meaningful gaze before. They see not each other as angel and demon, or as friends, but as two entities finally falling into this ineffable syncopation._

_Crowley’s heart is singing in time to their waltz, singing for Aziraphale. The angel’s smile provides accompaniment, and Crowley feels as if he need not say anything at all. If they can communicate the depth of their companionship in such perfect, silent harmony, why use words?_

_But will they dance like this forever, never putting a name to that emotion flowing through innocent touches? It already feels like an eternity has passed with the obvious sitting there, unspoken. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, might as well call it a duck._

_Crowley is now thinking about the eternal question: do ducks have ears? In my infinite wisdom, I will tell him: yes. Ducks have ears._

“This is lovely. I had no idea you were so graceful,” Aziraphale said softly. “I should have asked you to dance ages ago.”

_Crowley thinks of other things he should have asked or said ages ago as he basks in the summer sky blue of Aziraphale’s gaze._

“Better late than never,” Crowley mused.

_Aziraphale and Crowley might still be dancing at the symposium, had the string quartet not needed to take a break. The spell of inexplicable dancing over the gathered members of the rare book community is broken, but the spell between angel and demon lingers. They smile, as if sharing some private joke, and are thinking much the same warm and fuzzy thoughts about each other. Arm in arm, the angel and demon leave the symposium in much higher spirits than they had arrived to it._

_Aziraphale’s new book acquisitions find their way into the Bentley along with angel and demon, and they coast comfortably, buoyed by the warmth of contact and hours spent together, back to the bookshop for a nightcap._

“I’ve been thinking.”

_Crowley and Aziraphale are seated comfortably in the back room of the bookshop. Aziraphale does not sit in his favorite chair, but instead on the loveseat with Crowley. The breach of contact has drawn them closer, made them less self-conscious. If they could dance the night away without any sign of ill will from snooping agents on either side, nor a sudden smiting from above to forbid them, surely they could share the couch. Even Crowley has conceded to sit in the chair instead of upon the arm or the back--the latter of which is only to rankle Aziraphale’s sensibilities about where shoes belong. The angel is firmly of the belief that shoes should never, ever touch the seat of a chair; Crowley is unconvinced._

“I’d say, my dear. Head in the clouds today.”

_Crowley shoots a glance Heaven-ward, despite the fact that I am Everywhere._

“... That sweater rather suits you.”

_This is not what Crowley means to say, but upon looking at Aziraphale, cannot help but share the sentiment. Aziraphale smiles demurely._

“Thank you. But surely that is not what has occupied your mind all day?”

_You would be surprised, Aziraphale._

“I’ve been thinking about our Arrangement.”

“Oh?”

_Aziraphale has been thinking about it, too. Crowley feels his nerves tighten. He knows how I feel about an adjustment of their Arrangement, but he does not yet know how Aziraphale feels about it. His curious gaze tells the demon nothing._

“Well. I mean. That is. There’s no need for it, really. Not anymore.”

_Aziraphale’s expression becomes fragile, and I swear if you balls this up, Crowley, I will never forgive you. You may have been forgiven once in eternity, but I will not be so kind if you break Aziraphale’s heart now._

“No need…? What do you mean, Crowley?”

_Aziraphale’s voice is brittle, like the wrong word at this crucial moment might break him._

“I-I mean it doesn’t have to be so formal as an Arrangement, now, does it? I mean…”

_Spit it out, Crowley. Look at what you’re putting him through._

“I mean we’re on our own side.”

_Crowley whips off his sunglasses so Aziraphale can better read him. He takes the angel’s tightly clasped hands in his own and the angel smiles through his worry._

“We don’t have to follow any stupid rules or answer to our stupider superiors.”

_I assume you mean your bosses and not the Almighty--_

“What I’m saying is… I love you, and it’s high time I showed you.”

_Aziraphale’s expression blossoms into pure joy._

“Oh, Crowley. I thought you’d never say.”

_Not a moment too soon--six thousand years of moments too late, if you ask me--Aziraphale dives into Crowley’s arms and kisses him. One might think that the first kiss in six thousand years would be an awkward one; too hard, too nervous, too awkward. But it isn’t. It’s the most well-crafted kiss in all of Creation._

_Aziraphale’s hands find Crowley’s cheeks, holding him more dearly than any of his prized first editions. Crowley is swept up by the care of Aziraphale’s touch. It is sweeter than he could have ever imagined, and yet as familiar as a place to call home. Crowley had never felt more at home than by Aziraphale’s side._

_The kiss deepens, filling up the six thousand years of missed opportunities, spilling over into a spark of desire…_

“No,” Crowley breathed in the scant inch between their lips, his eyes remaining closed. “No. There’s plenty of time for that.”

“Crowley?”

_The demon smiles and slowly opens his eyes. He wants to savor this._

“World’s not ending. I have all the time in the world to love you. I don’t want to go too fast for you.”

“Well, my dear, I hardly think…”

_Come on, Crowley, I’ve been setting this up for millennia. You can’t just confess your love after this long and make me wait for the pay-off. Aziraphale is on board here. He’s been waiting six thousand years, staring it right in the face._

“I want to love you properly.”

_Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s hand and resolutely ignores all the signals in his body telling him to ravish the angel he loves so dearly._

“To court you. Make up for all the half-assed courtship over the years.”

_Aziraphale blushes, charmed. He doesn’t think it was so half-assed, what with Crowley rescuing him like a damsel in distress time after time, never asking to be thanked, only so that he could be in his company. Crowley, his forever selfless,_ **_good_ ** _demon._

“I didn’t think you were such a romantic, you wily serpent.”

“Why do you think I waited all these years?”

“You really are a good person.”

_Too good. This is bullshit. Fine, have it your way._ **_Romantic._ ** _You know it doesn’t matter how long you drag this out. I am always watching._

_But Crowley is fully content with this--the evening, the confession, the kiss. He is content to sit closer to Aziraphale, to hold his hand in the tender way he had thought of every time he glimpses that flutter of gold on his pinky, his well-manicured nails. Aziraphale sinks against Crowley’s shoulder with a sated sigh that fills Crowley from head to toe._

_Despite My omnipotent knowledge of just what Crowley has imagined doing to the ready and willing angel now curled up against his side, the demon is stubbornly quelling the urge. He is smugly thinking, ‘See how you like that,’ as he spoils yet another perfectly crafted opportunity. Nevertheless, Aziraphale finds Crowley’s tenderness perfectly on-brand for his demon, and is only too happy to revel in it. He feels giddy with the promise of what is to come._

_Here’s to you two idiots. Finally._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on Twitter [@vol_ctrl](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl)


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